


Tender Vulgarity

by orphan_account



Category: LazyTown
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-20 19:19:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9508667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: @ myself: whythis is gonna be my usual mix of complex relationship and sex i guess don't really think i can say much more about this





	1. Sprite and Spite

**Author's Note:**

> Ipro gets drunk. It's not the end of the world but it's certainly the start of something weird and new

There’s a halo of light in the dim haze surrounding the neon sign of the bar, bleeding red and blue of the ‘open’ sign into the dark morning air. Two women share a cigarette back and forth outside the front door, mingling their breath with the heavy fog covering the street. The door creaks on it’s axis and the main room smells like smoke and sweat as people drown themselves in whatever’s popular. The crowd screams ‘sleazy’, and the air screams ‘stale’, the drinks scream ‘waterered down’, and there’s screaming that sounds more like a moan, likely from the bar’s inhabitants draped over each other in the disgusting bathrooms. And, it was in this space, that Glanni Glaepur felt at home. He was a comfortable amount of shots into the night, comfortable in his own gauzy shirt, languidly resting against the twig of a man who’d blown him in the bathroom prior. His wallet was now very safely stashed in Glanni’s bag after he’d bought the round of drinks.

 

He’s not on the run here, more likely to make a deal and have a good time than he is to end up having to squeeze himself out a bathroom window as cop sirens wail in the ever-lessening distance. He can actually have a drink. Actually relax. His persona tonight was just a traveling salesman, no real need to lie his way out of any situation with this man eating out of his palm (and hopefully, using his mouth for other things). Easily charmed drunkards with no other intentions but a good lay. 

 

Everything was going perfectly fine until a man in slacks sat down beside him. His partner excused himself quickly after, making for the door as Glanni focused his attention on the man beside him, slightly irritated he’d run off his pleasant conversation, but there had been no other reason for the man to stick around either.

 

He props his hand on his chin and gives the man a very visible once over. Casual slacks, loose white collared shirt that clung tight to a very well built body, and a clean-shaven face with naturally swept hair. Glanni’s mouth twitches down, but he manages to keep a calm smile. 

 

“What’s your poison, then?”

 

“Sparkling water.”

 

“So what made you shave that nasty thing off?”

 

“You threw a firebomb at me.”

 

“Didn’t stick around to see if I’d hit anything.” Glanni leans back in the booth, watching as Íþróttaálfurinn takes a slow sip of his drink.

 

Glanni doesn’t move to get up, but switches to the water on the table as Íþróttaálfurinn visibly settles in. The hero props his arms up on the table, leaning far too close into Glanni’s personal space for any understandable comfort.

 

“What are you doing in Bullytown, Glaepur?”

 

“I was drinking.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes glitter with something unidentifiable as Glanni motions irritably at the bartender. He’s done with his drink, not sure if Íþróttaálfurinn will let him get up and cross the bar without following him or preventing him from getting up from the table. The bartender notices, and the bills he’d slipped into the man’s pocket earlier pay off as the man wanders over and delivers a cold beer. 

 

“Do you have bottled water?” Glanni slips a hand over the bartender’s arm, and the bartender nods tensely, not meeting Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes. Seems the town hero was more visible than he thought, facial hair or no. Looks like his hair is growing in again anyway, in soft blonde patches he’s twisted gently at the tips. 

 

“I would’ve taken you for a liquor man.”

 

Cut to the chase, idiot. Glanni examines his nails and pointedly doesn’t respond. His nailpolish is chipped- he’ll have to clean it off now. He pulls out the tiny bottle of rubbing alcohol and an eyeglass cloth and watches at Íþróttaálfurinn gently leans over for the bottle.

 

“I’m fixing my nailpolish.” He swats the curious hands away. “Buzz off.”

 

The hands, nor the fit body attached to them, buzz off. In fact, Íþróttaálfurinn is closer now, silently watching and drinking as Glanni alternates between scrubbing the dark purple off his nails and taking hesitant sips of his drink. Half the time, Íþróttaálfurinn drinks with him, mimicking the action as if he’s aware of how awkward this is, trying to fit into a bar of people that have noticed a hero in their midst and are starting to clear out as calmly as they can. 

 

Ten minutes later, Glanni’s anxiety is almost at the breaking point. He’s warm. He’s warm, handsy, and is actually chatting casually with his worst enemy, sizing him up as Íþróttaálfurinn continues to act completely out of the norm. He snapped out something about being pursed constantly, not just by the law, and Íþróttaálfurinn had given a soft belly-laugh. There seemed to be a hesitant smile glued to his features, like a shy schoolgirl glowing after hanging out with her cru-

  
  


Íþróttaálfurinn’s hand trails over Glanni’s hip, and Glanni reflexively tosses the beer in his face, splattering his features with the leftover dregs and foam. Íþróttaálfurinn blinks in shock and pulls back to wipe his face as Glanni processes this new conclusion, feeling his heart start to thud painfully against his ribcage. Íþróttaálfurinn is wiping his face with some of the bar napkins, dipping the tip in the glass in front of him, and Glanni freezes as Íþróttaálfurinn leans close again.

 

“Wasn’t very nice.”

 

“Did I say you could touch?” 

 

He puts his foot on Íþróttaálfurinn’s leg under the table. “The town hero, hanging out in a sleazy bar. I’ll be the talk of the town by tomorrow, what with all the flirting you’re doing.”

 

“Leaving so soon?” Íþróttaálfurinn trails his fingers over Glanni’s wrist. “I wasn’t done flirting.”

 

Glanni frowns and grabs the glass Íþróttaálfurinn’s been drinking from, nose wrinkling slightly as he feels a hand paw at his chest, trying to grip onto him for stability he’s not going to be able to provide. A soft giggle is pressed into his collarbone, wet tongue touching his skin, and Glanni abruptly slams the glass down.

 

_ Íþróttaálfurinn had been drinking SPRITE. _

 

Had someone slipped something into the soda? At a bar like this, possible. Glanni tilts the drink, eyes narrowing as he stares into the bottom for sediment or foggy sheen. No salty taste either, though the sweetness of soda would hide any real bitterness. His tongue feels fine, and there’s no inherent numbness. Íþróttaálfurinn is still moving, conscious, and actively playing with his shirt’s back zipper, fingers kneading into his shoulders in a badly-done massage. Undrugged.

 

“Glanni.” Íþróttaálfurinn mutters into his neck. Perhaps he’s started to realize something was very wrong, that the warm body he’s leaning against was in fact his nemesis.

 

“You know this is soda, right? How unhealthy of you.” Glanni gently strokes Íþróttaálfurinn’s jawline, sating his wandering hands as he sits back on his heels to stare wide-pupiled at his nemesis. 

 

“Soda?”

 

“Sprite. Lemon lime soda. This is soda.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn looks a tad distressed, and Glanni slides a hand down to gently hold onto his shoulder. He watches as the elf’s brow furrows, like he’s trying to compose his thoughts.

 

“M’drunk.”

 

Drunk. On soda. Glanni’s incredulous face must have been ridiculous, because Íþróttaálfurinn laughs in his face softly and leans in….far too close, hand cupping Glanni’s jaw.

 

“Not supposed to have sugar, but you won’t tell anyone.” 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s pressing up to Glanni, promise in his eyes, and Glanni gives a loud laugh that echoes in the chatter of the bar. “You’re threatening m-”

 

His lips miss Glanni’s by a mile, and he presses his face to Glanni’s cheek and then slumps against his shoulder, strong arms wrapping tight around his torso, effectively trapping him. His breath tickles Glanni’s neck, the stunted facial hair rough against his neck. 

 

Very much not a threat. It’s taking him a minute to process. Of all of the convincible weaknesses of the elves- coldiron, poison, vulgarity, a can of soda, and to think he’d been planning to just shoot Íþróttaálfurinn with a sedative and leave him in unconscious in the bathroom-

 

Íþróttaálfurinn burrows into his neck, teeth unreasonably sharp on Glanni’s collarbone. “Take me back to your place. I know you’ve got a safehouse around here.”

 

The world comes to a screeching halt as reality throws itself out the window, Glanni numbly unfolding himself from the athletics elf. That was a threat. In fact, he had no way to confirm what Íþróttaálfurinn was saying was truly because he was drunk, even if he had no founding in seeing the elf act or lie. 

 

“So why did you approach me tonight?”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet, already dragging him toward the door with no answer to be heard.

 

He exits the club with Íþróttaálfurinn trotting excitedly at his heels, grasping drunkenly at his dangling hand as Glanni leads him carefully down the city streets. He’ll put Íþróttaálfurinn in a bed, pack his stuff, and run the second the elf is asleep, leaving him to regret whatever hangover he’ll nurse from sugar.

 

It doesn’t hit Glanni that he’s lead the elf directly to his hotel room until he’s fumbling with the key, Íþróttaálfurinn wrapped around his back with a hand tucked up under his shirt, gripping the shoulder of it tight enough to ruin the fabric. 

 

The door clicks, and Íþróttaálfurinn stumbles past inside as Glanni stands, dumbfounded, in the doorway. 

 

“I know this isn’t your safehouse!” He sing-songs as he collapses on the bed. “Liar!”

 

“I don’t trust you in my safehouse.” Glanni sits down on the edge of the bed. There’s no risk of Íþróttaálfurinn arresting him like this, so he might as well unstrap his heels and put on more sensible shoes before he leaves. 

 

“I trust you!”

 

Glanni freezes, and arms wrap around his hips, pulling him backwards onto the bed. “Is this why people get drunk?”

 

“To grope their enemies? Not that I was aware of.” Íþróttaálfurinn’s arms are snug around his hips, and he squirms. “Íþróttaálfurinn.”

 

“Glaepur.”

 

“Please let go.” His voice is quiet. As fun as the bar had been (It hadn’t. Mostly. The small talk instead of the chasing had been a welcome change), he had no desire to fuck his drunk foil, even with the new information that Íþróttaálfurinn absolutely wanted him. He’d take advantage of this fact when Íþróttaálfurinn was sober. Seduction would be an easy skin to slip on, but he would have no part in their game tonight. Not like this.

 

“It was nice to talk to you, Glanni.”

 

“Yes, yes, we’re all human behind our grievous misdeeds.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn lets him go, and shifts on the sheets. “I’m not.”

 

Glanni lifts and eyebrow and turns to Íþróttaálfurinn, who’s staring up at him from a bundle of sheets, all his clothes and shoes still on. He cracks a huge, cheesy looking grin and giggles, pressing his face into the sheets again. 

 

Glanni chooses not to acknowledge this statement. Enough has happened tonight.

 

“It feels nice to not have any responsibility.” Comes from the bed. “Just for a little bit.”

 

“I can’t imagine how it must feel to have the weight of a population to save on you. It’s not as if you force me to run from the law constantly and don’t have a proper living situation.”

 

“You steal SO MUCH. You’re a LIAR.” Comes the muffled response, and Íþróttaálfurinn flips over onto his back. “Eat your stupid words.”

 

“How vulgar!” Glanni fakes shock, and Íþróttaálfurinn sits up and narrows his eyes at him. “You fuck.”

 

“I’m off to get the soap!” Glanni snarks back, trying his hardest not to laugh at Íþróttaálfurinn’s sudden seriousness at saying the word ‘fuck’.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn slings an arm around his neck. “Don’t you dare!” 

 

He pulls Glanni down to the bed with him, flipping overtop and flopping bodily on Glanni’s chest. “Can’t get up now for that soap, can you?”

 

Glanni swallows thickly. No. He actually can’t move now- Íþróttaálfurinn’s weight is far too much for him to push off him. He might be able to roll him off, but if Íþróttaálfurinn was asleep, that’d wake him up. And Íþróttaálfurinn is in fact, nodding off on him currently.

 

“Past your grandpa bedtime anyway.” He pats Íþróttaálfurinn’s cheek. “Get off me, you’re heavy.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t move. 

 

God fucking damnit.

 

“Íþróttaálfurinn.”

 

“Tomorrow.” comes the sleepy response. 

 

“Now, Íþróttaálfurinn-”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn rolls to the side slightly, taking a large portion of his weight off Glanni’s chest, but there’s still a heavy weight resting on his side, and Íþróttaálfurinn’s arm slung over his chest. 

 

Glanni panics. He’s trapped. He squirms in Íþróttaálfurinn’s grips, trying to turn over, to wriggle, to push, and Íþróttaálfurinn responds with soft chuckling as if this was a game. 

 

“Íþróttaálfurinn, you twit, don’t you fucking dare fall asleep on me! I'll shave your goddamn head, you damn idiot!" Glanni squirms, kicking his legs out as he tries his best to scoot away. "You BASTARD!"  


 

Íþróttaálfurinn snores cartoonishly, and Glanni settles for elbowing him hard in the chest. Fuck.  



	2. Shame and Sweat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glanni tries his hand at a good ol GRAAAANDMOTHER IT'S ME, SEX APPEAL and Ipro can't deal with his emotions and dives out a window like a rational elf

  
  
  


Glanni stubbornly does not sleep. The night passes, and his skull aches with the dull dregs of a hangover, not bad enough to slow him down any further, but just enough for him to complain. He’s been plotting all night, scheming up his escape and the absolute and cold revenge he was about to get on the idiot currently unmoving and cuddling him like a teddy bear.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn rolls over as he’s waking up, stretching himself out languidly on the sheets and Glanni takes his opportunity. He slams his elbow into Íþróttaálfurinn’s stomach and rolls over, sitting up very quickly on the side of the bed. “Good MORNING.” He keeps his tone carefully cold, and the movement in the bed stills for just a moment before there’s a thudding noise. 

 

Glanni turns around in confusion and stares at the twitching leg currently upended on the other side of the bed. Íþróttaálfurinn has thrown himself backwards in the sheets, and tangled himself up to fall off the bed, and Glanni can’t help it. He barks out a laugh, and bends over himself, wheezing as he lapses into hysterics. Íþróttaálfurinn pops up over the edge of the bed, face burning as he fixes his hat, the sheet askew and flopped half over his head. Glanni glances up for just a moment, taking in Íþróttaálfurinn’s offended and confused look before wheezing darkly, as if he’s completely out of air. 

 

Glanni eventually wipes tears out of his eyes. That plan was ruined. Íþróttaálfurinn has the good grace to look ashamed of himself, and he quickly gathers up a majority of the blankets and stands up too quickly. Glanni chokes quietly on a giggle, and Íþróttaálfurinn turns the shade of a ripe tomato.

 

Glanni clears his throat. Well, he can’t act completely pissed now. He recomposes himself, leaning on the edge of the bed and crossing his legs. “Didn’t expect that, did you? Still got your memories of last night, I’d assume, unless you had too much SODA.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s mouth drops open and his brow furrows, stepping forward and advance on Glanni, and Glanni fixes him with his sweetest smile. “Hope you don’t have too much of a headache, sweetie, those preservatives can be a real killer.”

 

“You-”

 

“Will tell no one, provided they don’t provid-” 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s already crossed the room and is leaning over Glanni, who cocks an eyebrow at him. “No good morning kisses with that breath of yours. Smells like…...fiiiiish.” He drags the ‘i’ sound out, running his eyes down Íþróttaálfurinn’s body. He slept in his slacks and shirt and shoes, and looks appropriately crumbled. Sexed, even.

 

Glanni gives him a very sharp smile and stands up, forcing Íþróttaálfurinn to step back. Íþróttaálfurinn turns away quickly as Glanni reaches for him, starting to pace around with room while staring at his feet. 

 

Glanni casually moves past him to pick the minibar open, retrieving a small bottle of water and sitting on the edge of the bed. He watches Íþróttaálfurinn tug on his mustache, rocking on his heels and shooting panicked looks at Glanni every so often. As Íþróttaálfurinn passes by, Glanni holds up the opened bottle of water and tries his best not to smirk as Íþróttaálfurinn takes it from his hand without a second glance. Trusting. Cute.

 

“We didn’t sleep together.”

 

“I know that.” 

 

“You want to.”

 

“No-”

 

“Go hop in the shower. I threw my beer on you last night  for getting too handsy in public, you tease.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn stills and looks over his shoulder at Glanni.

 

“We can talk about this when you don’t smell like fermentation and sweat.” 

 

“You’re not going to run?” Íþróttaálfurinn’s voice is quiet.

 

Glanni tilts his head slightly, lowering his eyelashes as he gives Íþróttaálfurinn what anyone else would have called ‘bedroom eyes’. “Íþró, I’m still here.” He keeps his tone soft. Convincing. Soothing. Íþróttaálfurinn clearly felt guilty for his public groping, and he’d mentioned last night his anxieties about not being constantly vigilant as a hero. 

 

Perhaps he needs a little push for that shower. 

 

Glanni stands up, cocking his hips, and turns away from Íþróttaálfurinn, showing off the ripped seam of his gauzy rose-patterned shirt as he buttons the front swiftly, smiling toward the window as he lets the black fabric slide off his arms and down onto the floor, sensually undressing himself like this is normal for him. He can see Íþróttaálfurinn’s startled gaze on his back, stunned at the vision of Glanni’s speckled back. He makes sure the zipper on his pants is startling loud. 

 

The bathroom door clicks shut, and Glanni turns around quickly to see Íþróttaálfurinn’s fled into the hotel bathroom and turned on the shower. Better make it cold, elf, there’s more to come. 

 

The thrill that dances over him stays with him as he wipes the remains of last night’s makeup off his face, and he dances his way in graceful movements around the room, humming ever so softly to himself as he puts on a show for whoever’s prying eyes may or may not be focused on the curve of his hips, arch of his back. Or not.

 

He revels in this feeling of being attractive- not just to scum at bars, not just to women who love money, but to the very person who chases him across continents, the intimacy of a relationship where Íþróttaálfurinn must be driving himself MAD with shame and desire for a person he’s sworn to protect against. Up awake at night, in that stupid balloon of his, cock in hand, thinking of Glanni’s painted lips on him, wiping himself off and wondering if there was any way to SAVE his “damsel”. Had Íþróttaálfurinn thought about him converted? What fantasy did he want? They were past hatefuck on a few levels, too physically comfortable after the fault of a single can of Sprite. Did Íþróttaálfurinn want domesticity? Thrill? Oh, thrill he would get, the shame and hidden relations with his greatest enemy.

 

Glanni smiles around the rim of the cola can he’s sipping at. He couldn’t claim to be a scientist (that PHD was incredibly fake), but he wasn’t a two bit conman. He knew how to get what his customers wanted.

 

He’d have that elf on his knees or he’d have a dark jail cell and a newfound weakness. Either way, the upper hand would be his.

 

He remains shirtless and pantsless as he hears the shower cut off, and gently tips the cola can out the window, making his way over to the bathroom.

 

The door’s unlocked. Interesting. He opens it silently, leaning in on the doorframe to a wonderful image of Íþróttaálfurinn in just his disgusting mustard-colored pants, his armor and hat resting on the counter. Glanni lifts an eyebrow. Where had he stored those? He’s pulling his shirt over his head, and as he ties his small scarf to secure the top, Glanni’s attention flits to his ears.

 

They bounce slightly as the shirt pulls over them, perked straight up in little elven points. He hadn’t even noticed them last night. This wouldn’t mark the first time Glanni had seen him without the hat, but it was the most intimate moment.

 

The last time, Glanni had zip-lined over his head and grabbed it in hopes of seeing a bald spot. He’d be thrown off his line and hit the ground half-running as Íþróttaálfurinn caught up with him immediately and snatched it back.

 

No bald spot. Just luxurious curls.

 

Glanni watches as Íþróttaálfurinn’s ear tips lower slightly. He rarely catches the elf without his hat, Íþróttaálfurinn had given a half-hearted excuse about them getting cold to the children and others. He’d done his research. If Glanni didn’t know better, he’d say that maybe the elf was shy, but there was probably another reason for hiding his ears constantly. It’s not as if humans hated elves around here. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s ears slump until they’ve actually swiveled slightly, like cat ears. He looks disappointed as he glances over his reflection. His ear tips flick, pulling themselves out of a sulking-looking position to half-raised, sticking 90 degrees out the side of his head as he continues to examine himself in the mirror.

 

He reminds Glanni of a curious cat, eyes wide, flicking his ears back and forth, and Glanni snorts softly, startling as Íþróttaálfurinn whips around with straight razor in hand, ears sticking straight up in alert.

 

Glanni holds his hands up, and Íþróttaálfurinn relaxes, staring at him questioningly.

 

“....Your ears-”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn puts a hand over one of his ears, staring a bit more suspiciously at Glanni. “You knew I was an elf.”

 

“I didn’t know they emoted with you.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn grabs his hat off the counter. “They do.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn sweeps past him, and Glanni follows with the gaze on Íþróttaálfurinn’s bright red ear tips. He was embarrassed.

 

“It’s cute.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn crams the hat back over his head and doesn’t say a word. He spends a moment purposely looking away from Glanni before getting up. Glanni watches him pace back and forth for a moment before heading back into the bathroom, and the second he turns his back, a gust of wind sweeps through the room. Glanni turns on his heel and stares at the open window and the curtains fluttering inward.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s opened-  and escaped through- the window.

  
  


Glanni can feel his heart drop, but pushes the feeling aside. He’s going to do his makeup and go out for food, and Íþróttaálfurinn can do as he damn well pleases. He hasn’t expected Íþróttaálfurinn to be as shy as he was now after how blunt he was last night.

 

He half-rushes over to the sill and yells. “BE BACK BY 7PM, UNDERSTAND?”

 

Glanni chews slightly on his thumbnail as he stares at the open window. Íþróttaálfurinn was…..attractive. He’d be a shy lay, maybe had never been with a man before, was clearly interested in him the night prior. Why so hesitant? Does he need to wrap himself in a sweaty towel and pretend to work out? Does he want his lovers underneath him while he does his absurd push ups? 

 

If Íþróttaálfurinn was so interested in him, why would he reject his advances and previous sexual innuendos- but just calling his ears cute? That was it? Was he too sensitive about them? More sensitive than letting Glanni see him drunk and mouthing over his neck? He wanders back into the bathroom, shuffling his makeup bag out of his suitcase on the way over.

 

Absurd. Frustrating. If he wanted on Íþróttaálfurinn’s good side, replying to his sexual desire would have been easy enough if he wasn’t immediately shying away the day after.

 

Either way, this hotel room was his for two days, and he had actually paid for it. 

 

He flicks the eyeliner out carefully and puts his makeup bag back in his backpack. Íþróttaálfurinn had left the clothes he wore to the club last night piled in the closet upon changing back into his garish hero outfit. Plain white shirt, collared, off-black slacks, belt. It wasn’t his normal look, and it smelled faintly of sweat and Íþróttaálfurinn’s deodorant and the beer he’d thrown on him. Glanni lowers the shirt from his face and glances at the other things hung up in the closet.

 

He flips open his small suitcase. He’d need better than this if he was going out- or, at least, something better underneath plain clothing. A surprise wrapped in skinny jeans and a low-cut top, to be precise. If he’s seducing some shy elf, he’ll do this his way.

 

Time to go “shopping”. Maybe he’d pick up elfroot as an extra trick.

 

Who knew what elves were into these days?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a warning the next chapter is when the sex happens and then we get back to them interacting with less sexual tension and i guess i'll start the plot that involves penetration but not of the dick kind


	3. Lace and Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no emotions just erections back to tender awkwardness after glanni sates his thirst i didnt want to write long emotional nonsense yet

Glanni taps his fingers slowly as he slouches on the bed, gaze affixed to the bright-red elf in front of him. He’s wearing his “purchases” for the day, surrounded with the bags of a successful lift, the condoms he got from the pharmacy tucked away casually in the bedside drawer with a container of lube and a nice shiny pair of handcuffs, directly from the belt of one obtuse officer. He’d spent the rest of the day luxuriating in the hotel bathtub, self-grooming and self-caring and waiting to either be hauled to the cops or ditched.

 

He hadn’t thought about it much, actually, he was a full bottle of wine into his personal time, knuckle deep in himself after shaving his legs and crotch. He’d made sugar water, at least- it was in the fridge. In case of emergency.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn looks like a child being berated. He rubs his bicep with one hand, avoiding Glanni’s gaze as Glanni stares at him, wine glass cocked in his hand and outfit screaming ‘control’. An ashamed little hero, in the lap of the beast. 

 

Oh, fuck it. He didn’t shave his crotch bare just to tease him all night, and he’d be lying if he hadn’t been intrigued by Íþróttaálfurinn very politely asking Glanni if he could fuck him senseless.

 

Glanni sets the wine glass down and straddles the lap in front of him, pushing Íþróttaálfurinn’s head back to get his attention. He pops the top few buttons of his shirt, not quite revealing his chest, but exposing his collarbones and paler skin. An invitation. He quirks his eyebrow. “Your turn.”

  
  


Íþróttaálfurinn gently adjusts Glanni on his lap, leaning him back against the headboard. His hands keep their tight grip on the other’s hips, rubbing soothing circles with his thumbs into the bit of fat above Glanni’s hipbone, gaze half-lidded and focused on the expanse of the chest in front of him, instead of Glanni’s face- which is good, because he’s starting to get flushed. Glanni bites down hard on his own lip, feeling the lipstick smear across his teeth as Íþróttaálfurinn lays a gentle kiss to the space over his heart. 

 

Too gentle for his taste. Not what he was going for. Time to steer him in a better direction.

 

Glanni jerks his hips up, rubbing his crotch against Íþróttaálfurinn’s, and he gives a shuddering breath as he looks up. Glanni plasters a knowing smirk across his face, covering his own unease as Íþróttaálfurinn stares at him with wide-blown pupils, mouth slightly parted.

 

Glanni reaches up and gives his mouth something to suck on, wetly swiping his thumb over Íþróttaálfurinn’s lip before sliding it in. Íþróttaálfurinn closes his eyes and leans into the touch on his jaw, the finger in his mouth, slow and gentle as he sucks on the finger.

 

Glanni wraps his slim fingers cautiously around the pale area of his neck, using his index to brush lightly over the stubble on his lower jaw. He doesn’t respond, but Glanni can feel a twitch against his crotch.

 

“Wouldn’t have taken you for a tender lover, Glaepur.” The spit slick thumb slides out of his mouth and Glanni wipes it slowly down his shirt.

 

“Does the hero just want a little break from being in charge?” Glanni’s fingers walk back up his chest, and he feels so much more in control. It’s going to his head, a rush of adrenaline and arousal at the obedience and pliance of such strong muscles beneath him. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn opens his mouth, and Glanni leans in , both hands holding Íþróttaálfurinn’s head in place as he curls over him, kissing him for all the air he has. He drags his teeth over the softness of Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips, and hisses against him. “I’ll make you bark like a dog if you want.”

 

He feels the shudder of breath ghost over his face, and Íþróttaálfurinn pushes him back gently, broad hand curved under Glanni’s chest. Glanni frowns slightly, and stands up, climbing off of Íþróttaálfurinn’s lap completely. He puts his hands on his hips and stares at Íþróttaálfurinn, legs parted and red faced on the bed. A pretty picture, at least. 

 

Did he overestimate how much he was wanted?

 

“......I...it’s a bit much.”

 

“How vanilla of you.”

 

“No-” His voice peaks on desprate and Íþróttaálfurinn goes a darker shade of red. “Glaepur-”

 

His last name again. Glanni’s frown deepens. 

 

“Íþró.” He steps closer again, swaying his hips. He’s not new to this game. Get him under you. Remind him of who he’s in this room with, keep his attention, keep him surprised.

 

Make the hero beg for you. Control him. Glanni smiles, a predatory flash of teeth that has Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes widening slightly. He goes to close his legs, and Glanni’s heel clicks as he places his knee firmly between his legs and leans over him, grabbing his chin. He tilts Íþróttaálfurinn’s head back and leans in again. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn moves up to kiss him, and Glanni rewards him with a gentle press of his knee against his crotch. He keeps Íþróttaálfurinn’s head in place, waiting for any inclination of him flinching, but Íþróttaálfurinn only pulls back to breathe. A man drowning in his own hunger, Íþróttaálfurinn reaches out and pulls from the backs of Glanni’s thighs to bring him in again. 

 

Glanni slowly settles back onto Íþróttaálfurinn’s lap, intending to use his weight to push him back onto the bed, but  Íþróttaálfurinn stays sitting up, fingers trailing up under Glanni’s shirt  with a strong grip. Glanni smiles against his lips, brushing his forehead against Íþróttaálfurinn’s in mock tenderness before leaning back to allow Íþróttaálfurinn to undress him.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn freezes when his exploration discovers the tickle of lace against his callouses, entire body locking up as Glanni continues to drag his nails over the exposed neckline and strong jaw, pulling at the tips of the scarf hanging down Íþróttaálfurinn’s back to start the process of undressing him. Íþróttaálfurinn pulls back and lifts Glanni’s shirt like a child opening a gift, staring at the lace piece he’d grazed over with his fingertips. Glanni can see his eyes over the hem of his lifted shirt. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn tightens the arm he’s got around Glanni’s back, pulling him closer and ducking under the fabric of his shirt. Glanni lifts an eyebrow, and goes to pull his shirt off when he feels a gentle press of lips on his lower chest, a gentle scrape of teeth over his pec. He shivers, biting down on his lip. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn continues his exploration with his tongue as Glanni squirms, managing to ruck the shirt off in a far less sexy manner than originally intended, throwing it to the side just as Íþróttaálfurinn pushes the cup of his bra down and finds his nipple. Glanni digs his nails into Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck with a choked sound.

  
  


Glanni winces audibly as Íþróttaálfurinn sucks too hard, and pulls him back by the hair with a wet ‘pop’. His mouth hangs open for lack of something in it, lips shiny with his own spit. His eyes travel up to Glanni’s sheepishly, and Glanni cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Want to see the matching set?”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s lips part slightly further and Glanni puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes, leading him down to the bed. Glanni pushes himself up to his knees, looming over him. He’ll give Íþróttaálfurinn something to put in that hungry-looking mouth of his.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s gaze fixes on his crotch, and Glanni feels a tinge of delight at how much attention he’s getting. So thrilling to have your enemy between your legs, staring hungrily at your body like it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hand hesitantly touches Glanni’s hips, thumbing the hem of the tight jeans down to reveal the lacy strap of the panties he’s wearing. 

 

Glanni puts his hand over Íþróttaálfurinn’s wrist. “Peeking, are we?”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn wets his lips. “Hard not to see you’re aroused.”

 

There’s the Íþró he loves, snarking back at him. Haven’t completely blown his mind yet, but he can change that. Glanni gives him a nasty smile, and gently grinds back against him.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn stops again and lets his hands fall to his side.  Glanni strokes a hand down his chest, exhaling slowly through his nose. Damnit. 

 

“Do you want this?”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t respond. One of his hands slides up Glanni’s thighs and comes up to rub at his face as he looks away.

 

“Do you want me?”

 

“Yes.” His voice is a bit hoarse, and he says no more. Glanni still can’t see his eyes.

 

He rocks his hips back gently. “Look at me.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t move.

 

The leather cord on the side of Íþróttaálfurinn’s armor snaps as Glanni runs his nails harshy down the sides. Íþróttaálfurinn jumps, startled as he jerks back to attention. Glanni wraps a hand around his neck and strokes his jawline with a thumb, growling low in his throat. “You have to tell me what you want.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hand comes up to grab at the hand on his neck, narrowing his eyes as Glanni gently rocks his hips and situates himself better on his new seat, pleased as punch. “.....I want you to take my armor off.”

 

He’ll take more than the external layer off, darling. Glanni feels his smile sharpen and threads his fingers into the cords and pulls harder, tightening Íþróttaálfurinn’s armor around his chest. “Tell me how.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s hands trail over Glanni’s, rough and warm as he leads Glanni up to the cord’s clasps, tucked into the sides of the armor. Glanni fishes them out and snaps them open with quick fingers, pulling the string loose with his teeth for good measure. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn slides out of the armor, and the mental image of de-shelling a crab comes to mind as Glanni slides his hands up under the tight-fitting, slightly sweaty shirt, rucking the fabric up to Íþróttaálfurinn’s neck and leaving him to pull it off as he explores the new expanse before him. Íþróttaálfurinn’s fit, clearly, and his armor shows off that Greek ideal- but not as well as his actual chest does. Glanni circles his hands around one of Íþróttaálfurinn’s pecs. His scars are faint underneath the round curves of his chest, nipples slightly askew but budded nicely. It’s good work, and Glanni hums happily. “Beautiful.”

 

“You’d fill out this bra better than me.” He murmurs, nearly breathless, and grinds his hips down in response to Íþróttaálfurinn’s twitch at that. “I think it might get in the way of your ridiculous workouts, but have you considered a different kind of pushup?” Glanni presses Íþróttaálfurinn’s pecs together, marveling. He was going to make Íþróttaálfurinn choke on his cock, but fucking his chest seems just as ideal at this point. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn’s got his hands on Glanni’s hips again, and Glanni hears something rip. He glances up to Íþróttaálfurinn’s face, and marvels in the far-too-scheming looking smile as his world rushes to reorient. Íþróttaálfurinn’s flipped their positions, moving from the side of the bed to the middle and is crouched over Glanni. They’re kissing again, deep and slow, and Glanni tries to wrap his leg around Íþróttaálfurinn’s back to drag him down and get that friction again.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn pulls back from the kiss. “Condoms?”

 

Glanni stares blankly at Íþróttaálfurinn. “You want to fuck me?”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn falters. “I’ll - if it’s okay- t’s a mess to clean up if we don’t.”

 

Glanni’s expression twists into a catlike smile. “How lazy of you.” He pulls Íþróttaálfurinn back down into a kiss, one hand on the back of his neck and the other untucking him from his hideous pants, pushing the fabric down just enough to get his cock out. It’s squishy in his hand, slightly-off color from wear and tear, but he can tell the construction’s done well. Glanni works his hand over the shaft, bending the internal bar so he can mimic a curved erection with the packer as Íþróttaálfurinn cages him in on all sides, strong arms weighing down the bed on his sides. Glanni keeps working over the shaft, fingers dipping occasionally into the seams between skin and harness, stroking over the soft hair there. The packer is satisfyingly fat, and not too plasticky feeling, with a solid core. He bounces his hips slightly on the bed. He’s actually excited for this. He dips his hand down to his own crotch to grip at himself when a hand comes up and swats his arm away.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn leans back onto his heels. “Condoms, Glaepur.” His voice has taken on a commanding sort of tone, and Glanni feels himself squirm in response. Adonis himself, he deliriously thinks, and rolls over to throw the drawer open, fishing out the box he’d stolen from the drugstore earlier. Good to see it wasn’t just him getting into this.

 

He watches in explicit delight as Íþróttaálfurinn rips open a package with his teeth and flings the box to who-the-fuck cares, when he realizes he’s still wearing pants far too late and that Íþróttaálfurinn is clearly going to be too impatient to take them off like a regular person. The condom slides smoothly over the shaft, and then he adjusts himself carefully, making sure the harness is on tight before leaning forward.

 

He’s half-correct, but Íþróttaálfurinn  gets them down to his knees before ripping them off over his boots, and Glanni mourns them for just a moment before Íþróttaálfurinn’s pulled him up by his legs, slinging the boots over his shoulder. Glanni looks up at him from his crumpled position lying on the bed by his neck and upper back, meeting Íþróttaálfurinn’s eyes just before wet and warm tongue meets the dark skin behind his balls. 

 

Glanni gasps sharply as he continues down, clenching his legs tightly to Íþróttaálfurinn as the broad hands slide up his flipped over form to part his asscheeks.

 

He was not expecting a tongue this experienced, he thinks blearily, the mental image of a blushing Íþróttaálfurinn flashing over his view as Íþróttaálfurinn uses his mouth to fuck shallowly into his ass. Glanni grips at the sheets tightly as his freed erection smears across his stomach with every shift in Íþróttaálfurinn’s grip. Íþróttaálfurinn’s handling him with full control now and that just won’t do.

 

“Fuck me already-” He demands breathily, and Íþróttaálfurinn peers at him down his own torso, gently sliding Glanni down until he’s crotch-level again. “Lubricant?” His voice is just the slightest touch hoarse, his warm hands lingering on Glanni’s upper thighs. 

 

Glanni digs his nails into Íþróttaálfurinn’s back and anchors himself. They remain still for a moment, eyes flicking over each other as Glanni lazily strokes his own cock, keeping Íþróttaálfurinn in place so he can watch.

 

“If you come before I do, I’ll make sure you regret it.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn grins at him and lays a gentle kiss on the arm holding him still. “Yessir.”

 

Glanni’s cock jumps, and Íþróttaálfurinn positions himself at the entrance. “Will you be alright without more lube?” 

 

“I’m not made of glass. Fuck me.” He punctuates his words with a sharp tug on Íþróttaálfurinn’s hair, and inhales deeply as he presses against him. He’s in control. He’s in control here. 

 

“But-”

 

“You just ate my ass out and the condom is lubricated, and I won’t protect my pride by pretending I didn’t finger myself when you were out.” Glanni uses his leg to push insistently at the small of Íþróttaálfurinn’s back with the sharp part of his heel. “I’ll leave you desperate and cuffed to this bed if you don’t fuck me proper right the fuck now.”

 

A finger brushes over his entrance, and Glanni growls. “With the cock, Íþró. The cock.”

 

“Just want to make sure.” The finger pushes into him, testing, careful, and Glanni digs his nails deep into Íþróttaálfurinn’s shoulder and drags welts down both of his shoulderblades. “Put it in.”

 

He shudders slightly, and Íþróttaálfurinn’s hand immediately goes down to the packer obediently, positioning himself at the entrance as Glanni twists a hand into his hair and takes a deep breath. Íþróttaálfurinn drives into him slow and careful. Glanni worries at his lip with his teeth, throwing his head back just in time for kisses and praise to be murmured over his skin, marking him verbally. He’ll will remember the rumble of sound against his throat for the rest of his life, Glanni thinks deliriously as Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips brush against his inner thighs. 

 

Hands smooth over his twisted up panties, forgotten in the rush to tease. “Glanni-”

 

“Good! Good, just, FUCK ME!” His voice cracks as he hits pitch. Íþróttaálfurinn doesn’t even pull all the way out before setting the pace, and Glanni loses all the air in his lungs as he arches into the hands on his sides. Íþróttaálfurinn is murmuring something as he thrusts in, gathering Glanni’s wrists in his hands and clenching down, pressing him hard enough into the bed to hurt.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn bends over and Glanni reaches down between the two of them, wrapping a hand around his cock desprately. Íþróttaálfurinn immediately jerks his hips and thrusts deep, holding it and Glanni digs his nails into Íþróttaálfurinn’s back to urge him on. “Faster, idiot, I thought you were athletic-” He hisses as Íþróttaálfurinn’s head bows into his neck, breathing deeply there before thrusting much faster, body responding immediately to Glanni’s commands as he chases his orgasm desperately. Glanni feels his toes curling in his boots, pushing Íþróttaálfurinn back to support himself on his hands. “Let me see your face.” He coos, switching his hand from back to chin to admire Íþróttaálfurinn’s blissed out look before twisting his wrist sharply. He arches his back and wails softly as Íþróttaálfurinn slides thick against his prostate and comes, weakly covering his own stomach and chest.

 

Íþróttaálfurinn chokes on air and whimpers, long and drawn out as Glanni lifts his hand and pulls him down into another deep kiss, rumbling a deep growl into his mouth. Glanni pulls back first this time, spreading his as wide as he can, showing off the curve of his legs in the boots and fisting a grip in Íþróttaálfurinn’s long curls. 

 

“Look what you’ve done to me, hero, made a mess of me.” He whispers breathlessly in Íþróttaálfurinn’s ear and slides his tongue up the sharp point, gently nicking the top with his teeth. Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips stutter, still inside him, and Glanni hisses with oversensitivity. “Out-”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn makes a half-attempt to slide out as Glanni fumbles with the side-straps of the harness as the elf starts up a soft chant of his name, begging softly. Glanni fumbles with the buckle a bit more, and drags it down as much as he can. He slips a hand between Íþróttaálfurinn’s legs, cupping a hand around his jaw. 

 

“Íþró-”

 

“It’s okay- it’s good-” Íþróttaálfurinn shoves the harness down to his knees, slipping his legs through the straps. “Can I-” He looks up, and Glanni gives him a soft smile and slides down. 

 

“Oh, okay-” Glanni hears from above him, holding Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips still as flinches slightly when Glanni runs a tongue up his thigh. “No teasing!” Comes a breathy whine from above him.

 

“Sit for once.” Glanni quips, and pulls down as Íþróttaálfurinn lowers himself, hands curled tightly in the sheets. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn gives a soft gasp as Glanni kisses his cock lightly. “Don’t you DARE, Glanni-”

 

Glanni puts his mouth over Íþróttaálfurinn slowly, ghosting warm breath over his skin before pressing his nose into unevenly trimmed curly pubic hair and gives a experimental suck. His hands come up to grip at Íþróttaálfurinn’s hips, gently helping him rock back and forth as he starts up a steady rhythm, rubbing soothing hands over shaking thighs. He pops off wetly, and sinks his teeth into the meat of Íþróttaálfurinn’s inner thigh. 

 

Íþróttaálfurinn peeks down at him over the plane of his chest, lifting an eyebrow. He lowers his hips further, and clenches his thighs closer around Glanni’s head. 

 

“I’m going to fuck your face now.”

 

Glanni’s cock makes a very valid effort to get stiff again as Íþróttaálfurinn starts sliding his cock against his opened mouth, tilting his head back and laying his tongue out. Íþróttaálfurinn’s slick slides down his cheeks. Glanni does his best to keep up with the uneven thrusting, every so often hitting a sweet enough spot that Íþróttaálfurinn gives deep moans. His thigh muscles clench and unclench around Glanni’s head, never pressing enough to be truly suffocating, but as he gets closer to orgasm, he clenches down like a vise and throws his head back.

 

Glanni closes his lips over Íþróttaálfurinn’s cock and sucks, and Íþróttaálfurinn comes all over his face with a scream.

 

He flops over on his side, legs splayed open as he settles himself next to Glanni, who’s lazily working a hand over his half-mast. Íþróttaálfurinn leans in close, noses nearly touching as Glanni looks back at the incredibly tender gaze looking back at him.

 

Then Íþróttaálfurinn laughs, and Glanni smiles uneasily. “What?”

 

“I was going to kiss you, but- you’ve got - something on your face.” Íþróttaálfurinn seems pleased with his joke, and tilts his head back toward the ceiling with a chuckle.

 

“You’re the one who ate my ass.”

 

“Speaking of which, we should shower.”

 

“You’ll have to carry me.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn shifts slightly, and Glanni holds up a hand. “No. No, that was a joke.”

 

“Just getting more comfortable.”

 

Íþróttaálfurinn turns over crowds into Glanni’s underarm, laying a broad arm across his chest. His eyes close, and Glanni stares silently at the relaxed face resting on his chest. He closes his eyes as well, and leans fully back into the pillows. 

 

He gets less than 10 minutes of rest before Íþróttaálfurinn hops out of the bed, hoisting him on his shoulder with a jovial laugh and a proclamation of “Bathtime!”.

 

It only hits him when he’s curled up damply afterwards, facing Íþróttaálfurinn's sleeping face in the dim light coming from the window that he realizes maybe he wants more than control and a good fuck.  


He chooses very swiftly to repress this thought and try to get some sleep before the elf wakes him up at some unreasonable time, lingering his gaze along the soft light framing his bedmate's face as if he can imprint this into his mind before slowly closing his own eyes.


End file.
